Burn Your Heart Out
by novadiablo
Summary: Moriarty finally did it.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Burn Your Heart Out

ONE

Moriarty had finally lived up to his promise, Sherlock decided, as he felt his chest explode over and over, in waves. And he'd done it in style. This wasn't just fire, this was acid and everything else that burnt. Ten years ago, Sherlock would have been able to give you an eighty minute, thirty two second lecture on every substance in the world with the potential to burn, with charted diagrams, live demonstrations and a joke far too intelligent for everyone except himself and Mycroft.

But right now, as he watched John sobbing over someone who wasn't him, he didn't give two fucks about the details of what was happening to his heart, because he knew.

Four years ago, John met Lucy. Three and a half years ago, they had bought a house together. Three years ago they married, sans Sherlock. Two years ago, Lucy had been declared fertile. Thirteen hours ago Lucy was killed on collision in a hit and run. Three hours ago John had begun sobbing on his sofa.

Four years ago Sherlock's heart started burning. Three and a half, he discovered what rejection felt like. Three, loneliness, two, small victories. Three hours ago, he discovered what longing for death felt like.

Sherlock shakily stood up and clambered towards the bathroom and vomited into the toilet.

Then he walked back out and turned and faced John.

"Doctor Watson, I'm afraid you are going to have to vacate the premises."

John looked up and another wave of acid showered over his heart. His face was tear-streaked and rumpled.

"You really don't know, do you Sherlock. You really don't know what it's like to love someone so much that it makes you physically sick when you aren't with them, what it feels like when they leave you forever-" but he was cut off by a hiss from Sherlock.

"And you are really too stupid and too blind to realise that I feel it every single day."

They stared at each other awkwardly for a long time, before John whispered, "Who?"

"Oh don't act like you don't know," Sherlock bared his teeth and stalked out of the room.

TWO

John moved back in three days later and it should have been the highlight of the decade for Sherlock, but all he felt was disappointment. He hadn't attended Lucy's funeral, but he'd seen John afterwards, and it was just another reminder that John could never love him like he'd loved Lucy.

A month and a half later, John discovered Sherlock's nightly ritual of crying into a shirt, which had begun eight years ago. He hadn't stayed long enough to recognise it as one of his own.

A year later they were as back to normal as the two of them could get, given that Sherlock was a heart-broken sociopath and John was a bereaved ex-army doctor with no children.

One afternoon they were sitting in the lounge, Sherlock blowing smoke rings and John inspecting his almost-grey hairs in the back of a spoon, when Sherlock popped the question.  
>"What would you do if I died?"<p>

"Cease to exist," John answered truthfully and immediately, as though he'd thought about it in great depth.

John purchased a puppy once. He was, in Sherlock's opinion, awful. Fat and rumpled and name Gladstone. It wasn't until Mrs Hudson quietly mentioned how much he looked like John that Sherlock had begun to warm to him. He was, after that, in Sherlock's opinion, perfect.

Sherlock got a boyfriend shortly after this. John began to copy Sherlock's nightly ritual, which Sherlock politely ignored.

Every year, the anniversary, John would go down to the graveyard. This killed any hope Sherlock had ever regained instantly.

John had one other girlfriend in his life - surprisingly, Sarah. It lasted three months, and then John shagged Lestrade out of growing frustration. That was the end of that.

Sherlock tried to keep bees in the flat at some point. Mrs Hudson nearly killed him, and Gladstone didn't cuddle him for a week.

John was never sure why he cried over Sherlock and Victor. Loneliness, probably, or jealousy. They were a handsome couple, both far younger than their years. Sherlock would certainly not want John anymore, what with his grey hairs and rising body weight. Sherlock had moved on.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Not beta'd and I'm dead tired. R&R!**

THREE

Of course eventually Sherlock broke up with Victor. Something about Gladstone, actually. John didn't remember the details, but Sherlock was furious and it was bye bye Victor.

Of course eventually John stopped going to the graveyard more than once a year. Sherlock got used to it eventually; it was like visiting a mother's grave now.

It was quite a few years before it happened. And by 'it', 'sex' is meant. It was hot and sticky and uncomfortable and wrong, and they didn't do it again, not for a long time. When they did it was magnificent.

John ate jam every morning, whether or not they were on a case. Sometimes, John would sit in front of crap telly and eat jam out of the jar with a spoon. He always smelled wonderful after that.

When Lestrade disappeared John was devastated – they had been close. But it ripped Sherlock apart, he spent three years searching. When they found him, Sherlock nursed him in the ambulance all the way to the hospital and refused to leave his room until he was out. He visited him every day at home. As soon as Lestrade was back at Scotland Yard, Sherlock was just the same as ever.

Mrs Hudson died. Sherlock openly cried at her funeral, and John held his hand. That night Sherlock curled up in her chair by the telly and watched her usual programs. The next day her family came in and cleaned out her house. A scarf, an earring, her tele remote and her recipe book were missing.

Mycroft got married, once. She wasn't famous or rich and she didn't work for him. She was a part of Sherlock's homeless network, and he fell in love with her immediately. She broke his heart and divorced him a year later. He sold everything and moved to Hawaii, leaving Sherlock enough to never have to work another day. He did anyway.

John and Sherlock began to go on extravagant holidays, never to the same place twice. As a rule, they slept in separate rooms and shared only one kiss, no more and no less, on every trip.

There was one exception, and the trips ended.

FOUR

Sherlock was wrapped around John when John finally told him. They eventually became so close that having space between them was painful. Really they should have seen it earlier.

"I love you, Sherlock."

Of course, tactless Sherlock answered with a condescending 'Are you sure?"

John just lay there and eventually he fell asleep.

He felt Sherlock's lips against the back of his neck when he awoke, the afternoon sun tinting the room orange. Sherlock was running his arm up and down John's chest slowly, taking in everything. John slowly shifted his weight and found Sherlock's face streaked with tears, and kissed them away.

Slowly, slowly – they had all day, John found himself imbedded in Sherlock, and the pace was slow. It was languid. And it meant everything. From Sherlock's tiny little chokes and moans to the flutter of his eyelids at the sounds John made, from the licks on the neck to the tears that streamed, it was everything and it was perfect.

It sped up, it always does. But even then, it was nothing like the last time, nothing like any of them had ever experienced. It was still affection and love and beauty and emotion and pain and happiness and loneliness and need and a little bit of lust, but they weren't fucking. Even Sherlock would agree they were making love.

Life went on. John fed Gladstone and Sherlock cuddled him. Sherlock attempted the bees again, and failed again. They solved case upon case and Lestrade came over for tea every now and then with his daughter. Mycroft visited too, and the brothers were civil, even kind. Sherlock stopped the nicotine patches and John ate more jam. Victor called in one day to apologise, Sherlock allowed him that and then introduced him to John. Victor immediately knew he shouldn't be there.

But some things were different. It wasn't just a single kiss on the holidays, which had picked back up again. They didn't have to use more willpower than available to not get erections when they were close, and watching movies was infinitely more interesting.

Afternoons were the best time though. When the room was orange and comfortably cool, and they would lay entwined and sleep soundly, always Sherlock with his face in John hair, John's hand in his own.


End file.
